


Desert

by spudgun



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, POV Original Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-21
Updated: 2004-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:48:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spudgun/pseuds/spudgun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stop along the way as Roland pursues the Man in Black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desert

**Author's Note:**

> Originally publicly posted [here](http://www.blue-moon-fic.livejournal.com/1285.html).

Days pass in the endless desert, but each one is the same as the last and she does not keep track. The sky stretches taut over the yellow ground, and suffocates the earth. The trapped earth burns fitfully with a fever that no amount of rain could ever quench, and the rains come more rarely than visitors to her door.

Most days, she sits on her stoop and watches the birds circle.

The birds sometimes call out to each other, questions and answers she can't interpret, but most days the only sound is the constant susurration of the grains of sand as they are carried by the wind on their endless journey from one end of the horizon to the other. When the man in grey rides in, his voice grates and scratches at her ears. When the wind whips up one night and breaks her window glass, she can feel his words in the shards as she gathers them. They cut her, and she bleeds in drops of vivid colour that hurt her eyes.

Some days, she sits on her stoop and there are no birds. When she closes her eyes, she is the desert.

When the man in grey rides in, she offers him water from her well and a tarnished can from her cellar. He accepts gracefully. He offers her fat, yellow coins. She has no use for coins: her cellar is well stocked with tarnished cans and her well is constant. She cannot eat yellow coins.

They sit on her stoop and eat. The man in grey talks quietly, questions and answers she can't interpret. She watches the grains of sand being carried by the wind on their endless journey from one end of the horizon to the other.

One day, she sits on her stoop, and the man in grey touches her cracked lips with his fingertips. The man in grey touches her cracked lips, and says, "You shall have your words, darlin'."

The man in grey talks quietly, questions she can answer. Her newborn voice is red and raw. It grates and scratches at her ears.

"Honey, I have mystery for you. Will you keep it for me?"

The man in grey leans close, and whispers in her ear. One word, he repeats one word, and this is her very first and very last mystery. She repeats it back to him and they whisper it together until it beats with her heart in constant time. Their voices are a constant susurration, carried by the wind on their endless journey from one end of the horizon to the other.

The day the man in grey rides out, the sky is stretched beyond bearing and splits in a jagged rent from end to end. The rains pour forth with fury, and pin the drifting sands to the yellow ground. The yellow ground hisses in pain and twists itself into ragged channels and shifting islands. The rains pour forth with fury, and strip the dust of travel from the man in grey as he rides out.

The man in black rides out.

Most days, she sits on her stoop and watches the birds circle as the yellow ground burns with a fever that no amount of rain could ever quench. Sometimes, she calls out to them, questions and answers they can't interpret. Her voice grates and scratches at her ears in drops of vivid colour that hurt her eyes. She closes her eyes and she is the desert, and the man in black rides across the horizon, from one end of the horizon to the other, endlessly.

One day, another man rides in, six-guns gleaming low on his narrow hips. She offers him water from her well and a tarnished can from her cellar. He talks quietly, questions she can answer. She closes her eyes and she is the endless desert. The man in black rides in, and the man in black touches her cracked lips with his fingertips. The man in black touches her cracked lips, and leans close and whispers in her ear.

One day, a man rides in, six-guns gleaming low on his narrow hips, and she has a mystery for him.


End file.
